The Devil You Know
by The Doors Of Perception
Summary: Watson feels the strain of Holmes' conflicting and whimsical emotions. Will a chance meeting with an echo of his past rekindle his passion for his constant companion, or simply confirm the distance between them? H/W.
1. Vices

**Disclaimer**: Unfortunately, I am netiher Sir Arthur Conan Doyle nor a Victorian citizen, so therefore no characters used here belong to me. Only the plot. (: Enjoy.

**The Devil You Know  
**_By The Doors Of Perception_

As I stood by the draped window that overlooked the cobbled streets below, I admired the heavily inhabited lane, fraught with bustling throngs of finely dressed ladies with blossoming parasols, their equally lovely escorts hooked and baying at their elbows. Distantly I could hear their soft chatter, the clatter of polished hooves on battered stone, the grunts of labour men, the cries of cunning kiosk owners flogging their wares. The liveliness of this fair city often brought a faint smile to my lips, as it did now, whilst I shared a rare moment of tranquility in my own quarters, relishing in this spot I favoured to linger by on quiet afternoons such as this. After a few moments my leg began to tire from the rigid stance I had been accustomed to standing to, thanks to my military endowment, and I crossed the room to my desk, glancing over the pristine surface, the carefully stacked papers. My hand hovered over them, dithering, and I wondered briefly whether I should look over the paperwork of our last case once more.

Early in to the month of February we (I say we, but of course it was my dear companion whom is famed for the unraveling of mysteries) had been contacted by a distraught young woman by the name of Jessica Lawrence, who had recently been bereaved of her husband, Edgar. She informed us that the police had dismissed the death as a nasty case of bad luck, but it became apparent during her inquery that the widow suspected her father of having dealt a card in the demise. Her father, as it came about, owned a rather large percentage of one of England's largest coal mining companies, branching across the country and even owning properties overseas, mostly situated in the colonies.

The widow explained that her father had disapproved of her marriage to the late Edgar Lawrence, as he had come from a family that owned little and were notorious for carrying mental illness in their blood. The daughter protested and eventually fled to be married to him, shaming her prestigious family immensely, and it was noted that the father, and partriarch of the estate, had taken the blow ratherly badly. Shortly after the new year, she and her husband returned to London by carriage, and stayed the night at the home of a family friend. The next morning, Edgar's body was discovered at the foot of the stairwell, his neck broken, as though caused by the fall.

Holmes of course immediately became infatuated with the young widow and requested she take up residence in a nearby hotel, for him to keep absolute surveillance over her, and forebode her to have any contact with her father whatsoever. During the investigation Holmes seldom spoke to me unless it was of importance to the case, explaining that he would prefer to indulge in this case privately, and often in the evenings I would take my meals alone, as he would be out dining with the prolific men that controlled the country's main industry exports, as an attempt to infiltrate their world, understand their ritual. It occurred to me, on these quiet nights, that all the men Holmes encountered were suspects until proven innocent.

I often wondered whether I myself were similar to the men he spoke to as if no gap in intelligence or class separated them, but felt nothing towards when his task was complete. It saddened me to think of such things, especially when the young widow exhibited equal and enthusiastic interest in the detective, and would at any opportunity laugh seductively at Holmes' mild mannered anecdotes, ruffling her skirts and decorating her lithe neck in the finest of jewelry. Once or twice I could not bear to be seated in the same room as them, and left wordlessly, only to be scolded later by Holmes himself in hushed tones, commenting on my rudeness, my unpleasant aloofness. I said little in response, too enthused with resentment, and consequently buried myself in my own research, my own medical essays that needed to be attended to.

But, as a child who soon grows weary of a beautiful doll, Holmes paid no further interest in the pursuit of her after he had solved the case. Evidently her suspicions had been correct, and her father had hired a man to break in to the house, lure Edgar from his room by feigning hurt, and push him down the stairs, to which he succeeded without arousing immediate suspicion. The father was stripped of his status and his wealthy estate, a second shame to the family, no doubt, and is currently awaiting trial in Scotland Yard. The widow was unnerved to hear such a thing when it came about in the evening paper, and sought ill comfort in Holmes, but as I had predicted he did nothing but bid her luck in finding a new, less gullible husband. I remained distant from him until the widow Ms. Lawrence had departed from London completely, for that remark alone.

Three days ago, Holmes received a beautifully scripted postcard of the chalk cliffs of Dover that was signed from her, to which he scanned once and discarded, claiming he had no use for such a thing. After some time I retrieved it, irritated with my companion's cynicism and dismissal of the woman's feelings, despite loathing her myself, and here it remains, in the file of the Lawrence widow which lay beneath my hand. I sighed, softly, and curled my fingers, retracting my hand. My mood had plummeted from thinking of the past weeks I had been forced to work in solitude, so unwelcome after the years of progressive closeness me and my companion had worked in. We were now attuned to each other as musicians were to their delicately crafted instruments, and I would be the first to admit that a hollow, cold feeling grew within me if I once pondered that I would have to go through that ordeal again.

At once I heard the slamming of the front door, the comely jangle of the servant bell, my glass instruments chiming with the force of the disturbance. My curiousity aroused - though not challenged - I drew away from my desk and left the room, peering over the bannister which gave an apt view of the downstairs hallway. My dear companion was hanging up his dusty charcoal coat, a belligerent grin plastered across his face, a rare occurrence for such an evening. I watched, inquisitive, from the stairwell. His mass of dark hair was clamped beneath a bowler hat I did not recognize, and soon he spotted me, or at least made it appear he did so, as I assumed that he had seen me before I him, and simply chose not to acknowledge my presence. His arms spread wide.

"Watson, my good man! Why do you look so uncharacteristically glum?" he all but crooned, removing the hat from his head and shaking his curls free. His handsome jaw stiffened with a good-natured grin, tossing the cap so that it landed neatly on the banister crook. His waistcoat, soft grey in colour, was crinkled, as though he had removed it. I frowned at this.

"That is not the hat you left with, Holmes," I said tonelessly. My leg stiffened as I ascended the stairs, my eyes averted from him, controlling an unusual stir of disgust for my friend that flared in my stomach. I knew very well of the shady side of his complex persona that he allowed no-one but me to see, the decrepit Holmes who numbed his woes with sultry poison, who raised hell in the dead of night without any indication of warning, who broke things for no particular reason aside from merely fancying the idea of destruction. This behaviour was hidden well, but I was sure he was unaware that I would sit at my desk for hours and sicken myself with concern for his life when that mood took to him like moth to bitter flame. And of course, I knew that the most astute man in all of England, in all the world most likely, could certainly take care of himself. But still, I worried.

I turned away from him to step in to the drawing room, holding a sigh in my chest, when a hand fell gently upon my shoulder, spreading warmth even through my jacket, and at once I was calmed, comforted by the contact. A mild inclination and I turned to my dear friend, watching the expression of lustrous joy softly diminish from his features as he studied me intently, as though I were a rare butterfly captured and pinned behind glass, or an unexpected twist in an ever thickening plot.

"Whatever is the matter?" he muttered imploringly, the weight of his palm light and pleasantly affectionate. However, before I could answer him his eyes darted downward from my face, and a look of comprehension passed over his features. "Ah, your old wounds."

"But.. how could you... ?" I asked, bewildered, as he guided me toward my favoured chair in the drawing room, one close to the hearth and the crackling fire. He merely smiled complacently, seating me tenderly, his hand resting upon mine.

"Even after all these years, Watson, you still question my knowledge of you? An endearing man you are, Watson," he uttered this with a faint chuckle, wandering over to our lavish collection of leather-bound books, each allocated our own selection of shelves. Mine, of course, consisted mostly of medical journals, a few of which I myself had articles published in, several anthologies concerning the latest theories of anatomical structure, and various magazines I indulged in when business was not too wearing and evenings were free. Holmes' books were mysteries to me, and as far as I could deduce from the golden titles printed on their spines, the subjects could vary from anything, from ancient Eastern history to bird identification. Still, I rarely looked through Holmes' possessions unless asked.

"It unnerves me that you can read me as easily as any one of those books. That is all I wonder about," I replied. He turned to look at me, wearing a faintly amused smile, retracing his steps and passing me, stopping at the liquor cabinet. I held my breath as his fingers ran along the glasses, leaving faint impressions, and exhaled with relief as he only selected one. He filled it generously with scotch and placed it in my hand, our fingers brushing. I subdued a pale shiver.

"There. That should warm your bones. Do cheer up, dear Watson."

"There is no medical evidence that suggests alcohol warms the internal organs," I remarked, my voice largely colder than I intended. Holmes watched me impassively for a moment, seated in his chair opposite to mine, waiting. I broke in to a helpless smile. "Thank you, all the same. The gesture is appreciated."

"The pleasure is mine entirely."

I drank deeply, draining the amber fluid from the glass, and sighed, rather irritated with myself. Holmes smiled, satisfied with my quiet, and busied himself with inspecting the contents of his waistcoat pockets, his brows furrowed with enigmatic interest. It amused me quite largely he found use for trivial things as the inspection of his clothes or anything else, for that matter, and at watching his delicately arched, spindled fingers grasp at the nothingness that was the stray threads of his cuff, I allowed myself a content smile, comforted by his presence, by his silent, although utterly abundant aura. Frequently when we were alone like this I felt my humble body becoming rapt by his overbearing knowledge, the genial glistening of his eyes, the hesitant, poised curve of his lips, always slightly parted, as though on the verge of speaking, but never quite there. I became weakened, quite breathless in fact, simply from observing him for this short period of time.

"Tell me, Holmes, if I may be so bold as to ask, to whose company was it necessary to share for all today?"

Holmes abruptly looked up from the twisted entwining of his fingers, his pale eyelids fluttering in the most obscure of manners, the dullest hint of surprise in the motion, as his dark, persuasive gaze lured out subtle questions in his features, a thousand of them rising to the surface; from where I sat I felt the hunger of his wildly inquisitive nature, and felt baffled, as it was I who had asked the question to riddle _Holmes_, of all patrons, rather speechless.

"I am afraid I am not at liberty to discuss such things."

"Do not mock my intelligence, nor my intricate understanding of your list of vices, Holmes. Answer me simply," I drew an impatient breath, my fingers tightening around the empty glass I held tautly between finger and thumb. "Was it a woman?"

Holmes' eyes grew colder, starker in their brooding tone. "It is you who should not mock me, Watson. You of all people should know that I have little need for the company of women, delightful as they may be, outside the borders of investigation."

"That may be, but I am well-aware that you fall victim to bouts of depression, needless, helpless sorrow, in which not even I can ease the weight of the world upon your shoulders."

"I... am dearly sorry you feel that way, my friend," the genuine tenderness held in my companion's voice silenced me. "However, as a leopard cannot change the decoration of his hide, neither can I manipulate my own true behaviour; especially not in the comfort of the single person I hold dear to myself."

I tore my eyes from him, humiliated by the prickle of heat that spread across my neck, the churlish warmth that rose to my cheeks and coloured them an impish rose, as I well knew due to Holmes' formal repertoire of my attributes. My heart trembled and knocked anxiously in my chest, and I was relieved to discover that at least my hands had ceased in their mild shaking. When my eyes had run along every other crevice of the mantle piece to my right, gazing any where other than the man seated across from me, they returned to find that Holmes had stepped very near to me, and was looking down to me, his exceptional height casting a slender shadow across my shrouded form. The contours of his face were very still, and very smooth, and from my disadvantaged perspective I saw the adept brilliance of his eyes as they shone, the sculpted features, prominent yet handsome, beneath a disheveled tangle of dark curls. I swallowed a shallow breath as he leaned over me, and as tenuous as the wing of a bird, his lips touched mine, drawing back to fondly smile at me, his head cocked askew.

I, bewildered, committed an act of pure rudeness, and roughly shoved him away from me, the heat now searing beneath my skin, fevered with coy damp and rippled with goose flesh. He near stumbled, but gained his footing, and watched me expressionlessly, his eyes large, glassy. I rose quickly, clumsily, from my chair and quickly exited the room, slamming the door to our airy sitting room behind me. The walls spun in a haze of confusion, and my fist was heftily swung to steady myself. A hand was clutched at the fabric of my shirt, pleading with the hammering of my heart to cease, for the pulsating beat of my blood to soften. My palms were moist and quivering, my lips dry and parted with a soundless gasp.

"The devil you are, Holmes!" I muttered furiously beneath my breath, turning to gather my coat, hat, and mostly importantly, my loyal walking cane. And soon I was out of the door, astride despite my leg, in to the charming, rose-coloured evening that was enveloping London, without even a pithless glance over my shoulder. I did not dare to do so.

_"We know what we are, but not what we may be."  
_- **William Shakespeare.**


	2. Destitute

Chapter II

I returned home quite soon after the late lamp lighters had scurried down from the depthless, swooning poles and the oily flames flickered dully, becomingly, as they lit the shady length of Baker Street, the greying pavement softly shadowed under the cape of night. My gullet was seized by the giddy hands of the queer sensation that precluded drunkenness, and would still be hauntingly empty, had it not been for the suggestion of the hansom driver I had mutely spoken to on my short journey some hours ago. Yet the time had already begun to slip from me as I entered the drab bar, a coyly dressed practitioner of medicine like myself becoming a terrible eyesore in a gloomy place, be it a suitable tavern for crushed souls to drown their erroneous loneliness in charmless spirits. Alcohol loved and nurtured unlike any woman or mother ever could, numbing the mind of the perilous ebb of pain that is accustomed now in our modern way of life. The greed and poverty and lust for excitement of our age often renders some blind of morals, therefore, indulging in a destructive habit was a natural compromise, leverage for the damaged psyche. I was simply doing as nature intended.

Though still this poorly thought theory provided no real comfort, no real substance except providing an illusion to dismiss my anger and, once satisfied with my consumption, I left a handful of coins upon the bar and left, quite promptly, in order to gather my thoughts. I perceived now as my footfalls shakily echoed through-out the dormant allure, both my pockets had become quite light. I, as you know, am a man of medical persuasion, and counterpart to one of the most complex, phenomenal, and ruefully aggravating minds the world has ever come upon. And though I meet my own conclusions with the aide of both logic and empathy, it appeared to me utterly astounding, that Holmes would want to do anything quite like _that_ to me.

At first, I wondered that maybe I had simply been subject to one of his numerous social experiments (to which I was periodically horrified, humiliated and always, _always_ clueless), but that thought had been subtly rejected after reminiscing over the serene pleasure I had seen beneath the cold vernier of his eyes. The mild brush of lips vaguely cooler than my own, drier yet fleshier than expected, the musky scent of his breath; that above all else lingered in my nostrils, a vapour stubbornly attached to the memoir. Once that memory provoked me, I felt the warmth return to my cheeks, and flushed, I swallowed a hasty mouthful of scotch, poor scotch that it was, to somehow drown out the illicit, perverse notion that pained me so. His gentleness was not uncommon when it concerned my care, and in the past he had made certain that I myself was in perfect comfort before he could rest, and still this precarious event had thrown me for all I was worth. In my staggeringly depraved state I felt unfathomable tears prick my eyes, tears I had not felt in so many years, that I could only pensively gasp, and quickly dab at my eyes, in hope that no wandering eye had come upon this, and flagged me with ridicule.

From the threshold of the stone arch I peered up towards the darkened span of our windows; the sitting room was bathed in darkness completely, which indicated Mrs. Hudson had tended to the fire. I assumed Holmes had already taken to his quarters, had quite possibly locked himself in for the night, a sign that he should not be disturbed, or face dire consequences. Only I and our kind landlady would know of the lengthy, fickle details of those conditions, common to a premature adolescent both in manner and execution. Or, like me, he could have desired to escape from our mutual lodgings for the night and taken up a room somewhere in the sprawl of the wayward city. I knew fully that the latter of these was much less likely, and yet as I let myself in, it was the one thread of hope that I clung to, praying I would not find myself in another tense circumstance this evening. Four million inhabitants occupied this dense and awesome citadel, and I felt the glare of irony look upon me distastefully, as I concluded that the one fellow I did not wish to spend the night, was laying in wait for me.

All thin hopes were soon extinguished, however, as I crudely felt my way up the dim stairwell, my steps wheezy upon the floorboards, cumbersome in stature as they sloppily tumbled over rug and the ground slipped underfoot. I did, however, prevail to reach the landing in my near-sighted, delicate state, and from there I knew the path to my bedroom, even in the dark, as I had traced it a thousand times before. I passed Holmes' closed and stoic door, shamefully avoiding to step closer to it than necessary, for I was aware of the barrage of apprehension that lay behind it. But as my fingers enclosed the brass knob of the door handle, I detected, though very faint, a relic of unusual warmth in the typically frigid metal. This was most of common, primarily as I had requested previously that my room may be left untouched if I were not present within our apartment. The thought chilled me, and for a moment I froze, my hand naturally falling toward a polished silver pistol I kept in the case of a pursuit.

With my foot I eased the door, and to my surprise it lurched ajar, freeing itself from my grasp, and yawned in to the empty room. The shallow disquiet, the passage of shadows eerily still, and the rectangles of faint yellow that were spread across the floor confirmed that my quarters were devoid of intruders. I moved across the room, setting the pistol in to a bedside drawer, petulantly muttering to myself for my puerile fear, and began to undress, my nightgown having been set upon my otherwise bare bedclothes. My hands fumbled with the smooth buttons of my blouse, and for a while I could only squint, and curse, and tug helplessly at the fair garment, as it refused to be stripped from me. Exhausted in my futile attempt I turned toward the window, replacing myself in the spot I had joyfully vacated this afternoon, which by now seemed a ripe, peaceful segment of a day I was rather hoping to forget entirely. My limbs limply hung at my sides, each as heavy and malevolent in nature as lead, and as my fatigue increased I was deliriously slipping in to a dreamlike state, my attention unfocused, my eyelids drooping, while I stood, half clothed, in the still, swarming gloom.

The rapt of knuckles on wood jolted me from my temporary paralysis, and my head jerked toward the interruption. Why it surprised me so to see my dear companion lingering there, dressed in his lush silk dressing gown even at this ungodly hour, his ashen skin illuminated by the wax candle he held cautiously in one hand, I had no clue. My nerves, shot as they were, never failed to calm in the most irritating of manners whenever _he_ stepped in to the room. I sensed the feverish blush rise in my cheeks, as Holmes seemed to content to remain looming in the doorway, his awry visage ample, and most unsettling. The crisp angle of his broad shoulders, thrown back to suit his build, his spine erect, suggested my companion was a tad awkward, and the atmosphere spoke disdainfully of a man walking blithely in to a parlour in which a woman was changing.

"Ah, Watson?" the clarified resonance in his voice had vanished; replaced instead by a sheepish mewl, so shocking the difference, that I had to inch forward slightly to hear him. "Are you quite alright, dear fellow?"

"Holmes! What the devil do you think you're doing, scaring a man half to death! At this hour!"

"I simply heard you moving across the landing with some difficulty. I suspected you may require assistance, as your laboured steps indicated an atypical juxtaposition," said he, in to the shade. "I jumped to the conclusion that you were... injured of some sort."

"I am not," I answered stiffly, my lips burning with the bitter salt of sweat. "Do not worry yourself in future."

A silence fell like an uncomfortable shroud in the slender gap between ourselves. I noticed his eyes abstaining from looking directly at me. Instead they played nonchalantly in the shadows, never once remaining in the same place for a long period of time. I, in my terribly disordered state, did nothing to improve the circumstance, and stood rigidly at the spot beside my bed, still at work at piecing together the _exact_ reason why Holmes had followed me in. I could imagine him vividly, pacing the floorboards of his own room, perhaps a pipe dipped in the corner of his mouth, perhaps a pocket watch of some grandeur seated and ticking contently in his palm. His skin and his eyes peered out through the obscurity, making him seem spirited, a touch ethereal to say the least. He was enthralling, a copious treat for my world-weary eyes.

I suddenly remembered in a churlish flurry of thought that he was the root cause for my current disposition.

"I am quite well, Holmes. There is no need for you to see me to bed. I bid you a satisfactory rest. Goodnight," my voice rang severely, in even my own ears, and for a moment I was certain that a glimpse of some inexplicable emotion crossed his chalky face, but in my ruffled temper I was in no mood to dissect and examine the strange occurrence. My bones wailed to be lost in the amnesiac amenity of sleep, and I agreed wholesomely with them.

"But.. my dear boy, you cannot dismiss my inquiry that simply. We must talk of this. Please, I implore you."

My jaw fell open to challenge this, but evidently surmising my answer, he lifted one finger in which to hush me, and grudgingly I obliged, my arms folded stiffly upon my breast, awaiting the postulated reasoning. Holmes' brows were drawn elaborately over his eyes, and as he peered down the pallid stem of his nose, a lenient aura embalmed within his eyes.

"Watson, I wanted to apologize immediately of our misunderstanding. You know of me and my dubious ways, and I stand here before you not in malice or desperation, but as sincere as a child. I beg your forgiveness," his head turned away slightly, and his tone thinned to a timid whisper.

"To see you gaze at me with such.. revolt, I.. do not know quite what to do with myself."

In a matter of moments he had drawn close to me, his hand grasping my shoulder quite tightly in its embrace, his long, dexterous fingers trembling quite suddenly, as though the vehemence of his words had required every inch of his physical fibre to conduct. His lean frame inadvertently pressed nearer, as though the snout of a insistent bloodhound, the flame now placed at my bedside, forgotten, as my companion gazed intently at me. Dryly his gaze washed over me, and I mirrored his actions; he drank in my loathesome appearance, the collar of my blouse hung open, exposing my neck and a narrow slither of chest. I warily threw my eyes askew, wrought with despair, and my hand lifted to brush sullenly at his.

"I reiterate. I wish to be alone. Tonight.. by my antics, I have reasoned I made that quite clear."

His eyes narrowed, oily pupils thinned to the points of pinpricks, and by a clamour of a sigh he released me with an obvious reluctance. I close to fainted as his touch left me, but my agile military flare still held strong and solid, the base that had been supporting the rather unpredictable dilemmas I tiresomely found myself facing. Respecting my impatiently made wishes, Holmes at once turned on his heel, noiselessly leaving me to my own devices, in the disrupted tranquility of my room. He hesitated in vain at the door, a graceful eye thrown over his shoulder, his profile stark and every morsel as elegant as that of royal blood. A remarkable, and frequently insufferable trait of his, was to effortlessly impress me, even when I was on the worst of terms with the sleuth.

"I forgot to mention," he said, fishing in to the pocket of his dressing gown."This came for you before noon."

He retrieved a powdery blue envelope and held it apprehensively between his savoury fingers. He tensed, possibly speculating whether to hand it to me himself, before thinking twice and flattening it upon a stack of papers on my desk. I batted a hand aimlessly at him.

"I will see to such things tomorrow, and not a moment before. Goodnight, Holmes."

"Goodnight, Doctor. Dream pleasantly," he softly called, and disappeared in to the corridor, the faint click of the latch following his departing steps. If I were to listen closely, I would then hear the latch of his own door, the exhalation of air as he moved within his quarters, and the lack of further noise, which made itself clear that he had seated himself, and would probably not move for the remainder of the night. My ears were pricked as though expecting the treacherous scrape of his violin to fill the house with the melancholic nothingness they did offer; but I was met only by cruel silence, the thing I had wished for so passionately, but instead rued, despised in fact. Desperately I wanted those crooked, sharp notes which had driven me to distraction. If I could guess at one thing that Sherlock Holmes inspired in me, it would be conflict. Of the senses, of the emotions, of the mind. So very deeply.

I felt something odd move within me as his footfalls died away, at his last words of the evening as they hung like an unpleasant odor in the air, cloyingly so. I fell immediately in to bed, wrapping myself beneath the cotton veil of my bedsheets, at once at ease in the wombing sensation. The walls leaned in oppressively, as did Holmes' withdrawing notion fall suffocatingly upon my chest. I sighed, having no choice but to push such matters from my mind, as they persisted to buzz and infest my waking moments. I pondered how such a prime example of a man, both in succession and, not to pride myself, acclaim, be so catastrophically confounded by something as insignificant as a token of affection? Was it truly such a thing to become so meagerly obsessed with? Was it worth throwing the comfortable lifestyle one had become accustomed to, or the bond me and my companion deeply shared?

I was at a loss with my own selfish nature, and for a second time this evening my vision was blurred by a brim of freshly brewed tears, and in the solitude of my own room, I allowed them to trickle freely down my nose and chin. I grimly wiped my face with the cuff of my blouse, clutching at my temples, only removing my damp fingers once the dull ache had begun to fade, as lassitude dug its talons in to me, and I was soon drowsy, listless as a sedated patient. All thought left me like the unfettered leaves scattered across the lanes once the trees had shed them, as whimiscal as nature could be.

As the flame flickered out by a quickened draft, as did I fall in to a merciful, pathless sleep; the dreamless slumber I hungered for.

_"The worst solitude is to be desitute of sincere friendship."  
_- **Francis Bacon. **


	3. La Vie en Rose

Chapter III

The next morning I rose as late as the solemn ache in my limbs would allow, my temples stinging of stale resentment, the streaks of hunger pains in my gut swelling to proportions to which I could no longer ignore. In my slumber I had dug myself pensively within the bedclothes, which lay heaped upon my coiled form like piles of a fresh upheaval earth. Stirring, I cocked my head from beneath an endearing flap of blanket. My eyelids drew upon a glorious sight, the entire room bathed in the golden radiance of a morning caught in the premature birth of spring. I fully expected my windows to yawn open in in accordance to their own, breathing a heavenly scatter of cherry blossom across the floor; the scent of my imagination so divine, for a fragile moment I lost myself in the moment, a lethargic grin plastered upon my ruddy cheeks. The crackle and hum of the kitchen below me aroused keen interest, and tumbling from the mattress, I ventured outward, in to the new day.

The house was unusually quiet for a pert morning, save from the distant bustle and crack of whips from the rousing London yonder, and of course the feathered steps of the maid that pattered like the indifferent paws of felines. The door to Holmes' room was widely open, gaping almost, and from the corner of my eye I regarded the looming towers of books stacked high upon the floor, the flurry of papers collected together in unkempt piles, that were any mortal hand to touch, would presume the clutter to be of a mind as strewn as the eccentric disarray. Perhaps they would be correct in that assumption, aside from the fact that such a man was as brilliant as he was so deeply intolerable to a tidied room. It was odd that his door was left open, as he despised the meddle of persons in his business, albeit endeavouring my opinion on occasion, when the fancy took him.

In fact it was I who he solely allowed in.

Fearing the wrath of Sherlock Holmes may come down upon our tormented maid like the hull of an iron sailship, I hastily closed the door with a wicked clatter, my clammy palm reducing the valour of my grip, and for a moment I fumbled, fazed. My head felt wrapped in folds of cotton, as though I were still reeling from the effect of that dismally swallowed scotch, and turning I made my way down the lucid stairwell that dipped and rose as my lumbered feet commanded. A giddiness warmed within me, though my hoarse throat begged for a cup of sweetened tea, I was at rest, spurred by the optimism of the hustling morning. The rich aroma of simmering bacon swam over me as I reached the foot of the stairwell, uplifting my already splendid mood at the thought of a proper meal; my wry stomach growled its agreement.

I sat myself down at the dining table, a sole place laid for me, and a startling array of eagerly glistening food awaiting upon spry trays of gleaming silver, upon dowry china laden with borders of finely painted ribbon. I smiled, so lovingly the meal had been arranged, quite reminiscent of a proud mother preparing breakfast for her doted children, and I comfortably sat, flattening a napkin across my thighs. As if on cue, the maid entered, a kettle held gingerly between two gloved and docile hands, and poured the readily brewed tea in to a cup, which she then handed to me, her poise polite, her smile jejune. She was a young, fair girl of eighteen at least, with skin no paler or softer that the petals of infant rosebuds, her hair spilling from her cap in wispy blond tendrils. Her eyes were large and periwinkle blue, and often her rose lips were pursed, pouting, as if she were embroiled with questions that she daren't ask. She resembled a doll in many respects, in her reserved approach and her insipid beauty.

Upon her first arrival I was at first utterly spellbound by her, unlike I had been by any other woman I had been acquainted with in the past. Her employment had come soon after the unexpected departure of our last maid, who, fleeing the residence without so much as a word to the tenants, had claimed that the bouts of emphatic violin rehearsal in the dreary hours of early morning and her subsequent banishment from Holmes' quarters when she complained of this, had driven her to take up a position elsewhere. I myself was vaguely surprised it had taken the wretched woman so long to tire completely of Holmes' concise profile of madness, and felt inclined to mention that at the very least, he had not caused her to inflict bodily harm upon him, to which he deserved absolutely. He made habit of grieving that woman, and to some extent continues this now upon the girl in our current employment. Perhaps even more so, as my infatuation with her had distracted my attention from a case, and that had left a seed of dislike growing within my companion, that as of late had come to hostile flowers. His animosity toward her unnerved me, for she was a lovely creature, as any man would notice. Queer as it were, Holmes took no notice of her whatsoever.

And queerer still, Sherlock Holmes had _certainly_ taken notice of me.

"Is the breakfast to your liking, Monsieur?" the maid asked leniently, in her timid broken English, unsettling me.

I dabbed my mouth with a corner of my napkin and thoughtlessly nodded, preoccupied with easing the choleric pains of my stomach. She smiled and glided to the far end of the dining table, to the chair that was normally harbouring my dear companion, and that now spoke to me sorely of emptiness, of a hovering thought that I rejected in favour of particularly urgent desires.

"By chance have you seen my companion this morning, Rosalie?" I inquired once a dry mouthful sank down my throat. Her stance instantaneously stiffened, and for a moment her eyes brazenly closed, as though she were quite distressed by the mention of my colleague. I have mentioned that the tones between them were not as abundantly peachy as desired, but seeing her pallid hands curl to quivering fists that shook at her sides, I admit I was rather bemused, and wished I had not cited Holmes to her at all. Then she reopened her eyes and the delightful hue returned to her cheeks; she inhaled sharply before replying.

"I am afraid I have not, Monsieur," said she, stroking the varnished surface of the table with a tatter of rag. "Perhaps you should ask Mademoiselle Hudson. She would know more of Monsieur Holmes' comings and goings than I."

"Is that so? Then perhaps she could tutor me in deciphering Mr. Holmes' thoughts," I muttered indistinctly in to my teacup, draining the last of the golden-tinted water as the conclusion of the meal. Thus I folded the napkin and placed it neatly beside my plate, my manners intact in spite of my recent discontentment, and motioned toward the door to quietly leave, when the maid straightened sharply, a contorted frown upon her seraphic features, an ambiguous hand thrown out in front of her, indicating to the space I resided only mere seconds ago. I coyly watched, my head titled.

"Is there something you wish to tell me?" I attentively inquired, though to no point, for my question was answered by a thrust of paper landing in the center of my chest, the maid offering me a faintly crumpled envelope at arms length, the tips of her cheekbones engulfed in a flush of chagrin rouge. As I turned the powder blue paper between my fingers, wonderfully silken beneath my touch, my lips parted to ask of her apparent discomfort, but when my eyes lifted from the strange letter- the very same that Holmes had left upon my chest of drawers after our brief discussion late last eve - I found myself alone beside the table, the dishes vanished from their placement by a soundless spirit.

To say I was not shaken by her aggravated depart would be a crude understatement, and for a moment I stood speculating the meaning of the gesture, as if I were a sleuth in my own right. But I was not; currently, I was a poorly dressed, sufficiently fed and profoundly troubled doctor who was neglecting his research for self-indulgent misery, and this thought above else displeased me most. Never have I been so entangled with such peculiar woes as these, with such persistence and lewd contemplation. In retrospect, however, nor have I ever been this intricately engrossed with such an individual as I have, and will forever be, with Sherlock Holmes. And still I wished for the black formation of these thoughts to pass with the spill of sunshine that illuminated the sitting room as I ventured in. Spreading out upon the lavish velveteen sofa, head propped upon the pillows, I peered through the large, observant windows that ran alongside the opposite wall, analysed the familiar romp of patrons marching up and down Baker Street on their daily excursions, and from where I lounged the sun was hot and pleasant on my face.

Between my hands the envelope remained, held to my palm by the sharp dip of my thumb, stiffened now by practice, and lifting it toward me I inspected the script. It simply read my professional title and our address, supplying no clues to the author or the nature of the letter. The paper itself was close to crumbling at my touch, dainty and partially translucent. I was fascinated by it, as I remarked outloud to myself in the quiet of the sitting room that there had been only one place where I had seen such paper used before.. but that today was a cordial memoir, a fixture of the past long since forgotten in my memory, of a self that I once knew well.. but for the life of me could not understand.

"Is that not what youth is?" I smiled to myself, fully aware that Holmes' had remarked to me - on several inappropriate occasions - that this frivolous habit of speaking outloud to oneself would someday show me up to be a madman.

"You do realise, Watson, that a tendency to engage oneself in conversation is a token of the mentally ill," a smooth, condescending voice echoed from the hallway, followed by the faint shut of the door. The voice grew louder as my colleague joined me in the sitting room, stalking past me to stand before the gargantuan wall of bookshelves, running an absent finger along the precocious spines.

"However, I would not fully insist that you see a professional unless you begin to answer the questions to which you asked."

Evidently discovering the desired book, he nimbly plucked it from the shelf, and turned to me with a vacant grin. The sudden appearance had confounded me, and at once my heart began to throb restlessly. My hand closed protectively around the letter, and I was foolish to believe this minute action escaped the notice of the ingenious detective. Regardless, he chose to toy with me.

"Ah, I see you have the letter that came for you. How delightful," his fingertips ran submissively over the thick wedge of pages. His arrogant smile spoke volumes. "Perhaps from an old regiment comrade, or by perchance an associate from your schooling days..? Most likely the latter, as the make of pap--"

"What am I to you, Holmes? An expendable plaything?" I suddenly burst, my voice climbing though hoarse, my chest clutched in the agonies of seizing anger; a fury so pure and so ravenous that my hands were bound tightly to fists, fingernails drawing pain as they dug senselessly in to the flesh cushion of my palm.

"You know perfectly well of the letter's origin, having collected it yourself, and still you plauge me with your useless knowledge as if I were as ignorant as a child! Please desist!"

Holmes scanned me with an agile eye, and lightly cocked an eyebrow, which simply indulged my temper, and then moved swifter than I have ever seen him do so before. In a matter of moments I was pinned against the sofa, one writhing hand either side of my head, with Holmes' weight crushing my chest, restricting my ragged breath. He brought his face very close to mine, the ashen visage contemptuously cold in contrast to my haggard, flourished skin, and firmly his flaxen fingers were pressed to my jaw, guiding my chin upward, to meet his serritipous eye line. I fought him, deafened by the crescendo of blood pulsing beyond my ear drum, and was flabbergasted, irreverently struck, when Holmes' ghostly lips shyly skimmed my mouth. Our struggle ended immediately; I was a placid doll, no breath drawn in by my petrified lungs, gazed unblinking at the curtly smiling man above me.

"My, my," Holmes remarked, shaking his head with a churlish bounce of dark curls. "I forget of that wicked temper of yours."

"You.. are the most atrocious man whom I have ever had the misfortune to know," I barely whispered, a tide of godawful tears threatening to spill and reduce to me to the level of Holmes' audacious farce. Brusquely I turned my head away, my jaw clenched in the most despairingly painful ways, my lips moist and quivering, distracted by his profuse bodily warmth, his wonderful exotic flavour ripe, lusciously novel at the beckoning of his grinning lips. I squirmed, simultaneously infuriated and enticed.

"You always were a man of flattery, Watson," sighed he, retrieving his desired book from where he had discarded it on the floor, and tucking it beneath the length of a sinewy arm, soon strode from the sitting room to leave me at peace. It was only when I heard the tedious pad of his leather boots ascend the stairs that I groaned outwardly, flinging my arms above my head and burying my face within the dour comfort of a velveteen slip. My exuberant lack of comprehension had once again foiled me, made myself the ardent fool of my companion's lavish cabaret, and this daunting aspect left me reeling, such like that sweet, penchant kiss, that deadened by senses and filled me with a complex unknown to my studies of psychological trait.

I had all but forgotten the paper, plastered to my clammy palm in my scarce grip, and sighing meticulously I dismantled the flimsy envelope and drew out the breadth of parchment that laid within. Unfolding the laboriously creased paper, I squinted at the small inscription, and after a brusque moment I recognized the script to be that of a man I had not seen, or heard from, in an ample amount of years. It filled my heart with pure delight to read the garbled note he had forged. It simply read:

_Dear John,_

_My dear boy! Has it truly been twelve years since we last exchanged words? I hear you have become quite the talk of the academic confederacy, especially considering your choice of partner.  
I take it you have been infiltrated in to the seedy world of crime? I dearly hope not!  
If it takes your fancy, I propose we meet for tea and discussion.  
You do still remember the address of my estate, do you not?  
Come any time after 1 o'clock; it is then I will be at home to see you, if you wish._

_Sincerly, Dr. Christopher William Riley._

Checking the face of the elderly grandfather clock, I surveyed that it had just gone past 11 o'clock of this fair morning. Rising from my place on the sofa, I absently tidied the mess of strewn cushions Holmes and I had made, and curtly made my way to the hall. The maid was kneelt beside the door, a scrubbing brush in her paltry fist and a pail at her elbow, and as I brushed past her, she cocked her head toward me expectantly, her doll-like expression piqued with interest, her blond lashes aflutter. Nearly ignoring her in my coherent rapture I turned quizzically on my heel, meeting her with a smile sewn with glee.

"Rosalie, promptly run me a bath, and if you would, collect my dining attire from the tailor some minutes' walk from here and prepare it for half past twelve," I ordered, rubbing my palms together in a gesture of impatience. She jumped to her feet, the pail hung from her hands; she silently questioned my enthusiasm.

"Of course, Monsieur, right away. Is there any thing else?"

"Yes," I answered in a hushed tone, one hand planted steadily upon the gleaming curve of the banister. "Do not tell Mr. Holmes of the hour of my leave. It is not necessary for him to know of my appointments unless I have told him. Understood?"

With a cautious glance she nodded, and wove past me in heed of the kitchen, the kittenish dab of her feet echoing across the dull tiles of the kitchen. Supine silence followed, to which I could almost weep, as the thought of reacquainting myself with the old, wiley dog that was my good friend Christopher Riley burst from me like song. I bounded the stairs in my hast, surveillant of a lecherous ear that may of overheard the prior conversation, but to my pleasure found nothing but the welcome solace of my quarters, where I found myself humming a mirthful tune.

Nor did I pay a morsel of attention to Holmes' door, as it was perfectly still, albeit a fraction ajar. Just wide enough, as it were, for a skilled ear to eavesdrop.

_"A man should not strive to eliminate his complexes but to get into accord with them, for they are legitimately what directs his conduct in the world."_  
- **Sigmund Freud**


	4. A Memoir

Chapter IV

Lord Christopher W. Riley, or simply Riley to his associates and allies, was in my time the most incredulous of academic graduates that I have ever come upon. Three years my senior, and having undertaken a degree beneath the medical professors, it soon came to light that he had neither the basic understanding of anatomical structure nor the patience to learn it, and within two months of enrolling at the prestigious University of London, to which I attended some years later, had forfeited his place amongst the young student practitioners and began his own precarious studies, this time in the field of exotic botany; the ludicrous fees were paid by the large trust fund his father had passed on to him at the tender age of eighteen. I, at the pinnacle of adolescence, my stammer blossomed fully and the faint nervousness in my speech - that has lessened over recent years of formal address, and seldom returns, though a miracle being the professional partner of the infuriating Sherlock Holmes - was quite bemused when he and I were first introduced, over a decade ago, by my admired professor Earnest Parsons.

Riley then was a thorn in a scholar's side; he often prowled the dormitory halls with nothing more to do, with the tenacious intention of scaring the wits out of the younger students by painting yellow smudges upon his skin, or hollering bloody murder at the peak hours of early morning. In spite of his penchant for chaos, he was a prolific student, immersing himself in the study of rare plants plucked from the sweating heat of the Congo, or sliced from wild Amazon trees with trunks as huge as houses and older than any man could possibly conceive. I was blind to the attraction of such oddities, but nevertheless when the opportunity arose, I would accompany the sterling Riley on his daily excursions in the university library, where I would find him frequently, surrounded by castles of leather-bound volumes, whittling away the hours whilst his arcane gaze was engrossed with knowledge.

Rather than shy away from the man's exuberance, I resolved to spend as much time as possible with him, with difficulty, for he was a popular man, fond of hosting extravagant parties in his father's estate and talking the ears off spoilt sons like himself, for which he constantly ridiculed but often found himself in the company of; therefore I, I suppose, was a welcome relief to the endless, mindless chatter of the wealthy. His traits bemused me, admittedly, but then I would put them down to his rich upbringing. For instance, he would always refer to me as John, differentiating himself from my colleagues, who addressed me by my last name. When we shook hands he would first clasp my wrist tightly, then place his index finger and forefinger against my palm, and run the length of my thumb. I was infatuated, if that is the correct word to use, with his eccentricities, and always found solace in his bubbling curiosity, so did not mind the odd rituals he performed. It pleased me to think that he was comfortable enough in my presence to do so.

_It appears that I am doomed to befriend those of the meticulous persuasion_, I thought absently to myself as I rode in the back of a hansom, currently en route to Riley's estate, which I presumed he had inherited after his father's death recent years ago. I only knew of this by reading the lengthily obituary featured in the newspaper, but because I had been working a case during that period, the death completely slipped my mind. In truth I had not thought about Riley since then, and at once felt a faint wave of nausea rise in my stomach, of impatience and nervousness, the anticipation of seeing an old friend scattering all else. My hands lay folded precisely in the warmth of my lap, and though they shook subtly, I was unable to pin down the exact emotion in which they trembled in.

The sway and buckle of the cab lulled me, momentarily muted the erratic rattle of my heart, as we approached the circular drive, enclosed by two separate cast-iron gates, the smattering of hooves upon loose gravel brought an impatient smile to my lips. The spray of jilted pebbles clattered loudly upon the sod of flowers, the lolling heads softly nodding to the stir of late April breeze. Either side of the grand entrance, strips of burlesque poppies had been ground, their ripe colours lush in the afternoon sun, their yellow eyes squinting; their organic fragrance wafted toward me as the hansom pulled up outside the large oak doors. The driver asked sullenly if he should wait for my return, and I answered no, that he should hurry on. I was confident Riley would bestow upon me a detailed account of his life since our depart, and I must admit I was eager to hear the tales my former companion had collected.

My knuckles had scarcely brushed the bell before the door creaked open, and a young man with startling green eyes peered out at me from the glimpse he had allowed. Once inspecting me sufficiently, he merely stepped back, and held the door open for me to pass. All but unnerved by the avid nonchalance the mute youth portrayed, I stepped over the threshold, removing my hat as I did so, and turned as the door gently shut behind me. The boy was rather slender, curiously so, with his limbs curtly folded over a trim waist, and by the rigid way he held himself, I had to generously assume that he was in the employ of Riley. A shock of auburn hair, and the splatter of freckles dusted upon the bridge of his nose stirred a slight amusement in me, upon remembering a conversation Riley and I shared in, a long time ago.

_I tell you, old boy_, Riley's voice echoed to me from a memory long since past, _nothing brings me pleasure more than an excellent book upon my knee, and a strapping young lad at my elbow. That is the life envied by even the Gods. _

"You must be the Doctor the Lord is expecting," the youth eventually inquired, the vaguest notion of a wily Irish accent present in his voice, after extending an arm in a polite gesture to relieve me of my coat, hat and cane. I obliged, the weight of the garments lifted from my weary shoulder, and with subtle relief I exhaled shortly, graciously smiling upon the boy.

"Indeed," I answered, smoothing my waistcoat of incessant wrinkles. "May I see him now?"

The youth nodded, turned on his heel, and beckoned for me to follow suit. In my reminiscent stupor it occurred to me that the grandeur of the foyer had cunningly escaped my notice, whilst I had been bequeathed by the warm memoirs held dear by Riley. As the boy and I strode in matching step, I fell to swaying my head, regarding the serene beauty of the house. The marvellous floors gleamed in elegant allure, marble pillars rising occasionally, often laden with baskets spilling foliage and tattered wild flowers. Upon the walls hung rosy portraits of curvaceous women draped in translucent sheaths, romantic heroes set atop boulders defying the lap of waves. Privately I cringed, for I understood why Riley had decorated his home in such a manner; it was, of course, another of his ingenious pranks. A petty ruse to distract naked eyes from the lack of warmth about the mansion, the precocious silence that invaded the narrow corridors, the sheer lack of morale.

I knew then that it was in all likelihood that Riley solely lived here, save for the few servants who bear to work in such dismal surroundings. A hallow strained in my stomach at the speculation, and I was helpless to indulge in the loneliness that the endless passage of empty rooms spoke of. The youth guiding me halted at the threshold of a door, his hands outstretched, hesitantly poised, and then timidly rapped thrice. The door jolted ajar immediately.

"Yes, Sean?" a gruff, obtusely humoured voice rasped, charmed only by the humble note of jejune irritation present. I, carefully watchful, controlled the ill urge to laugh.

"The Doctor has arrived, m'lord. He wishes to speak with you?"

Even I had not anticipated what may occur then, but to my surprise, and surely that of the youth also, Riley leapt from behind the door, appearing before me with wide-spread arms, and a devilishly lacquered grin to match the wonderous gleam of his eyes. Riley stood stouter than my memory divulged, and though his thin frame had thickened considerably, neither his agility nor his grace lacked in his stance, his shoulders broad, his jaw stiff and proud. For with his large hands he clasped my shoulders tightly, beaming grandly, and forgot instantly of the boy who witnessed the befuddling feat from his seldom abrasive master.

"John Watson. In the flesh! By jove, man, what an utter delight it is to behold you! And how well you look! Positively radiant!"

"And I could say the same of you, aside from the difference in waistline," I chuckled, tapping his stomach.

"Always the joker, dear friend. Come, I must offer you a drink and learn of what you have been doing with yourself," said he, a hand straying from my shoulder to nestle in the small of my back, pressing hastily to usher me in to what I could only presume was his study. Without a word to his bemused servant, he audaciously brought the door to a swift close, returning his gaze, once again, to me.

"Still compassionate in regards to the staff, I see, old Riley," I mused, a gartered grin upon my lips, seating myself in a chair beside the ashen marble hearth, seizing the opportunity to survey my old friend's sanctum.

The study was extraordinary. From the spacious walls densely packed with the bound spines of books, to the rare gangly plants that grew in ballistic colour beneath the awe of oil lamps, to a desk littered with fanatical drawings of things I dare only to dream of, a thought struck me somewhere within my gut, and drew a cold shiver from me, my skin prickled with heat. _This study is almost identical to Holmes'_, a dubious inner voice proclaimed, _except perhaps a tad cleaner._ I heedlessly dismissed the thought, reacquainting my attention to the host, the master of the manner, whom I realised only then had been speaking to me all this time.

"..but I suppose one cannot choose the weather conditions. In fact, I have yet made plans for a botany room to be erected. I should expect you to come view it, after construction, although I understand you have never shared my affinity for the organic, I should still think it to interest you. You always did have a weakness for natural phenomenon."

Riley tossed his eyes aside, busy with the pouring of scotch, and lifted his glass high to emphasise his point. Suppressing an obscene laugh for the second time in as many minutes, I meagerly nodded, accepting a glass as Riley offered. The older gentlemen joined me in taking a seat opposite, the crook of his elbows resting comfortably upon the arms of the chair, and engaged me in a lucrative stare, forming a steeple with the alabaster stalks of his fingers. His eyes glittered dryly.

"Considering that, it should not seem note worthy that you, of all professional men, would take up residence with the country's most prolific of laterally thinking detectives."

"I believe Sherlock Holmes to be a little more than merely a _lateral thinker_," I replied with no hesitation, then suddenly rebuked, cautious of my chatter. I chose my words carefully. "I assume, then, you know of his work?"

"I do indeed. Though only, in admittance, did I research this Sherlock Holmes when reading in the paper that you were his associate. I could hardly believe my old eyes. John Watson, the frail boy I had known as a troublesome youth, _surely_ could not be the assistant to such a _highly_ revered name?"

My hands impetuously wilted to fists of their own accord. There was an ambiguous mocking in Riley's tone that had no sooner chilled my blood than aroused a hint of dislike for my countenance, something I had not ever felt in my time of knowing him. Perchance it was the scotch that created bold airs about a challenged man, but leaning over the bow of my knee, I leaned toward Riley in a conspiratorial manner, the crackle of the adjacent fire warm and bathing upon my flesh, my stomach churned sourly.

"I do not know of what you are implying, Riley, but I have only one thing I wish to say about Sherlock Holmes; he is my dearest friend, and I will not let an old scoundrel like yourself scoff at the praise he has worked so doggedly to achieve."

"Understood," said Riley after a tense moment of silence, his eyes awash with irrefutable humour, murmuring in to his glass. Satisfied, I settled quaintly back in to the comfort of my chair, and slowly our affable banter resumed, to the point where our mutual laughter rose and filled the dormant study as it did in the days of our academic youth, all previous hostilities glossed over the blessed calm of scotch and brandy. Riley regaled rambunctious anecdotes of his tour of Northern Cambodia, the riveting treks through the Congo, and his recent trips to America, where I was made aware of his profound grasp of business. I sat, rapt, whilst my old friend chatted, his gestures wide and emphatic, answering the minor questions he put to me when he was not speaking of himself. I did not mind, however, as it put my mind to rest to know that my personal confront had not ruined the evening.

Some hours later I found myself solicitously drunk and plenty soothed beneath the cape of a sky dwindling of sun, the landscape of London lain out before me, infinitely more lovely when the touch of sumptuous slumber had touched the peaks of towering buildings, and the darkness impeached by benevolent oil flames, high above cobbled streets sparse of hansoms and paroled women. I favoured evenings such as these, where complacent nature ruled and I was safely sound in my home in Baker Street. Though only there in spirit, as for some time I had been leaning against the balcony of Riley's veranda, my clammy fingers wrapped around a tilted glass, observing the metamorphosing dark. And soon I felt the heat of another body close behind me, and for a fleeting moment I genially turned, in hope of reprimanding my dear Holmes; but of course I was met by Riley's devious smile, and the warmth of his hand as he laid it fondly upon my forearm.

"You, Doctor, shall catch your death if you remain out here. Shall I have Sean prepare you a room for the night?"

"Why on Earth would he do that?" I asked, momentarily baffled. Riley's smile simply grew more reckless.

"Is it that you wish to return home at this hour, in this state? I fear your landlady may throw you out, or worse, suffer of a heart attack if she is a woman of an elderly disposition. John, I insist that you stay he--"

"I could not possibly impose so," I hurriedly muttered, removing Riley's hand from my arm, for the heat had grown uncomfortable in such unbearably close proximity. "I thank you for your company this evening, but I must take my leave."

At once Riley's hand flew and struck me upon the shoulder as I moved to leave, weighing upon it and grasping it with an abrupt vehemence that shook me of my peculiar drunkard's stumble, and with a swift move on his part, managed to secure me in his arms, his face pallid and faintly lined with age. Fraught with confusion and a slurred protest I stiffened in the grasp, my hands firmly seated against Riley's chest to pivot away from him, but his strong arms were matched to my own, and we held fast, our bodies compact.

"John," he airily crooned, his breath balmy upon my neck, grinning crookedly. "Do you recall that evening, twelve years prior, where we parted ways?"

"I... I am afraid I do not," I answered in a puzzled hush, terrified of the disdainful servant encountering us in the shameful, one-sided embrace. I shuddered at the appalling prospect.

"Of course you don't," said he; "you were still a mewling youth then, whose heart ached for knowledge, for understanding. Have you discovered that of which you seek? Perhaps in this.. this _Holmes_ you speak so.. _yearningly_ for?"

I am adamant to admit a fervent colour rose in my cheeks when he spoke of his, his mouth hovered, inclined toward my ear, and for a desolate moment I thought of nothing than my desire to be away from this man, to be held dearly in the arms of another.

"There was a night you were gravely lonesome, and you sought comfort in my room when you found no other," Riley continued, his eyes shallowly lit, mystified by the recollection, "and you allowed me to place my hands on you, in the manner in which I hold you now. Do you understand, John? You gave yourself to me that night!"

His soliloquy ended, and he leaned inward to engage his mouth with mine. I could bear it no longer.

"Enough of this!" I exclaimed, shoving Riley from myself, so fantastically so that he near lost his balanced, a frail hand thrown out to catch at the balcony as his feet tread clumsily upon one another. The blood that burned aghast my cheeks simmered, as did my outrage, as I roughly seized Riley by the pressed lapels of his suit, my words lowly and gut-wrenching.

"Your ulterior motives are dastardly, Riley, and rather apt. It is now I shall call that poor boy - whom most likely lines your bed linen for his keep - to fetch me a hansom, and this shall be our final exchange of words," I paused a moment to wipe at a dab of perspiration above my brow. "I am truly sorry that I had not met your expectations for me. But I implore you, that if these emotions your harbour for me are virtuous, allow me to return home safe guarded, to where I belong and to _whom_ I belong to."

Allowing the garment to slip through my fingers, I retreated to the pair of doors that granted access to the beautiful veranda, and not before my hand was planted unsteadily upon the frame I heard Riley's voice sound behind me, inhabiting the maturity that had frequently slipped from the remarkable man, though thickened by the breadth of zeal.

"So like a rose in the fit of blossom you are, John, yet bearing bitter thorns to prick whoever dare touch you."

Then a sorrowful tear ran the length of his cheek, as he bowed his head sorrowfully, his hands hung limply between his knees. Despite the plunge of guilt I nursed headley in my stomach, I shook my head of such tedious things and left Riley on the balcony to venture forth, homeward, as the instristic disturbance that ran amok my heart developed to a potent thud. A blooming, lightheaded sensation flowered within me, as pure as I realised the words I had spoken to Riley in the heat of conflict had been. I daren't describe the wonders that those feelings withdrew, but one thing I must convey to you, dear readers, is that the particular colour, if any, that could be associate with such a grand epiphany, would be the clearest, richest, brilliant red.

So like a rose, indeed.

_"Life is the flower for which love is the honey."  
- _**Victor Hugo.**


End file.
